


For Kingdom's Sake

by JaneDavitt



Category: Original Work
Genre: Fairy Tale Retellings, M/M, Original Fiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-17
Updated: 2015-04-17
Packaged: 2018-03-23 11:25:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3766384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JaneDavitt/pseuds/JaneDavitt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A re-telling of the Cinderella story with the prince more interested in a duke and a quest for a missing brother.</p>
            </blockquote>





	For Kingdom's Sake

The flutter of a dress, white like the wings of the moths clustered thickly around the candles and lamps illuminating the ballroom, disappeared into the shadows of the palace gardens leaving Damon staring after the girl he'd just tried to kiss, her discarded shoe in his hand.

Already, he was starting to wonder what he'd done, but the shoe he held, a dancing slipper, a pretty piece of frippery, prevented him from passing it off as a wine-soaked fancy.

The slipper was real, the pearl-white satin stained with grass where its owner had stumbled, startled by the chimes of midnight from the clock tower. The delicately vicious point of toe and heel, designed to make a lady's foot seem impossibly tiny as it peeked from beneath a froth of silk, dented his questing fingertip as he searched for a clue.

Laughing softly at himself -- what, had he expected her name to have been inscribed on it, as an inky-fingered schoolboy would do to safeguard his belongings? -- he tossed it into the air and caught it. The stiffly formal gardens were lit by the full moon, all silver and black, the rigid, clipped regularity of bush and tree and bed softened and blurred.

"An odd keepsake, Your Highness." A tall figure walked up the wide, low terrace steps toward him. Damon didn't need a better light to recognize Pavare, Duke of Selsis, Lord of the Northern Marches. No one else at court had his height, his breadth of shoulder, his rakish, slightly dissolute, arrogance. 

And none, of those whose fealty was accepted by the king, at least, had his reputation, whispered about in shocked, gleeful tones by the envious or cowardly; openly, roundly condemned by…well, no one.

None would dare; my Lord Pavare's blade was so very swift to answer. A woman with a sharp tongue and a habit of frankness who considered herself safe if she indulged the latter whilst using the first, was mistaken if she had husband, son, or brother of an age to meet Pavare in the misty dawn -- and be buried before the next sunrise.

Damon studied the slipper. Safer to look at the pearls studding the heel, the diamonds flashing coldly on the buckle, than the gray eyes and thick black hair, unpowdered and carelessly drawn back off the thin, pale face, of the man approaching.

Pavare disturbed him. Sometimes walked in his dreams as he lay restless and fevered in his room, the arched ceiling painted in gilt and cream and scarlet festoons, as befitted a prince's chamber, historic scenes picked out on the paneled walls, meant to inspire him, remind him of whom he was and his duty.

In his dreams, Pavare was rarely kind, but there was a certain tolerant amusement in the gray eyes that met his gaze when he finally lifted it from the slipper. Damon’s eyes were blue eyes, summer eyes, to go with his golden hair. The court poets harped on that theme endlessly, until he longed for dull brown locks and a nondescript hazel instead, just to spite them.

"It is no keepsake," he said, striving for control over his voice. "Should its owner have furnished me with her name, I would gladly see to its safe return, but as I have neither name nor direction, I cannot perform that task."

"You danced with her all night." Pavare raised winged eyebrows, dark, savage slashes against his white skin. "One would have thought a man so besotted would have cajoled a name from her lips by which to address his love."

The amusement had fled; only the mockery remained. Damon took a steadying breath. He, at least, was safe from Pavare's blade. If he challenged the heir to the throne, the scandal would be more than even Pavare would dare.

Possibly.

Whatever the risk, he cared not; he had always given Pavare his honest thoughts over the years in which they had been acquainted. Of course, as eight years separated them and he was but a score and five now, for most of that time, Pavare had been less a friend than the man Damon had striven to emulate. He’d admired and worshipped the man, grateful for a careless word, a smile. Once he’d experienced the dizzying bliss of a sword lesson when Pavare had been bored on a rainy afternoon.

When he'd reached adulthood he knew Pavare as a man, not an idol. He'd watched Pavare drink, fight, gamble; curse, kill and -- He wrenched his thoughts away from the image of the time he'd entered Pavare's chambers without waiting for permission, eager to tell him that a stag had been sighted in the woods and a hunt called.

Two bodies, both male, twined together like ivy on rocks, the pale skin of Pavare's throat marked red with kisses, his lean, powerful body gentled to the curve of his lover's back. His eyes had met Damon's startled gaze with a studied calm and one hand had tugged the heavy silk covers up higher, not over his own bared limbs but over his companion, who had stirred and muttered sleepily, his hand groping backwards.

Damon had backed away, a stammered apology dying on his lips because a prince did not lie and he could not truly regret what he had seen. What he had discovered, not about Pavare, but himself. 

His last glimpse had shown him Pavare's hand drawing back the tumbled curls that fell in disarray across the pillow and pressing a kiss to the nape of his lover's neck, drawing a shudder and a sleepy, sated moan of pleasure.

As dismissals went, it had been effective. And it had been since that day, some six months past, that he'd begun to dream of Pavare, imagination supplying the details memory could not.

They had never discussed it; what was there to say? Pavare was a law unto himself, his wealth and lineage rendering his eccentricities allowable.

None but the most old-fashioned cared that Pavare bedded men; his reputation lay in tatters because he stayed faithful to none of them, chose them from all walks of life, and had failed to take the time needed to provide an heir for his title and lands.

Duty first. How well Damon knew that rule. The ball was given in its name; each drop of wine, each crumb of food, each note of music. All laid at the altar of duty because it was high time Prince Damon took a bride. The king was indulgent where he was concerned and he had free choice.

His choice of well-bred beauties, groomed and trotted out, anxious or predatory mamas in attendance.

And he, rebellious for once, had singled out a stranger, a charmingly wistful smile on her pretty mouth, a girl who seemed alone, quite alone. He had swept her, silken skirts and all, across the polished dance floor, through silence and whispers, alternating as the turns of the dance took them in various directions.

He'd still overheard enough to make his smile grim and his mood bitter. So he was dancing with a nobody, an interloper, was he? 

His choice. His. The king had given him that freedom. And she had been different. Even if he suspected the dazzle in her eyes was due to his rank. Oh, not a social climber, no; just very young and in love with romance as every young girl was. 

A prince was, he supposed, romantic.

They'd hardly spoken and she'd barely met his eyes.

And she'd fled just as he was about to give her the kiss the moonlight demanded.

"No name," Pavare said thoughtfully. He plucked the shoe from Damon's grasp without asking and studied it. "They said she danced in glass slippers."

"Who said?" Glass? How could that be? And yet…yes, he'd seen the pink skin through the translucent glass, like rose petals under ice.

"People. Idiots." Pavare tapped a finger against the shoe. "This is not glass."

"But it was," Damon said slowly. "At least…Yes, it was, I swear it." He gave Pavare a look that dared him to argue. "And I am no fool."

"Oh-ho!" Pavare chuckled, rich and deep. "I smell magic. How very amusing."

"'Magic'?" he repeated stupidly. "Pavare, that is utterly forbidden! Love spells are--"

"But it wasn't a love spell," Pavare interrupted. "Love cannot be compelled; you know that." His eyes darkened and he lifted a hand as though to caress Damon's face before letting it fall to his side. "This," he said, hooking his finger inside the shoe and allowing it to dangle, "belongs to a young miss who made a wish, I wager. Something trite and foolish; a dance with a prince, perhaps."

"Well, she got that," Damon said dryly. "Several of them, in fact."

"And now you must track her down and capture her hand, as her heart is already yours." Pavare leaned closer, setting the shoe aside on the terrace wall. "And after her hand, her lips? Did she even allow you the refreshment of a single kiss to quench -- or would it have fanned? -- your ardor?"

"I did not kiss her," Damon said, the words forced past stiff lips. Pavare's breath, wine-scented and spicy was warm against his face and he felt the airy caress ripple over him, leaving him yearning for more.

"What? You don't like kisses?" The words were murmured, low and ripe, heavy with that ever-present, infuriating amusement of Pavare's.

Annoyance lent Damon strength. He was a prince full-grown, his blade blooded on an ogre, his virginity long since gone. He had joined the sessions with the king's advisors for a full year, and negotiated a tricky trade agreement with a neighboring kingdom. He was damned if he was going to allow Pavare to reduce him to stammering incoherence.

Again.

"I like them," he said evenly. Taking the initiative for the first time ever in his dealings with Pavare, he ran the tip of a finger slowly over Pavare's lip, licking his own at the same time. "Do you?"

Pavare snapped at it, and Damon snatched his finger back just in time. Pavare grinned at him, his eyes sparkling. "So you've grown tired of waiting, my prince?"

"Perhaps." Damon met the gray eyes without flinching. "Or perhaps you have?"

That gained him a rueful smile. "You have been a little slow to grasp your opportunities."

"How remiss of me." Damon broke away, walking down the steps into the garden, knowing that this night, this time, Pavare would follow. He took the path leading to the summerhouse, but as soon as they were out of sight of the palace, he whirled around, taking the few paces needed to bring him close to Pavare, and kissed him.

The strength of the body pressed up against his, all whipcord muscles, steel under the froth of lace, the gloss of silk, came as no surprise, but the heat of the mouth working against his did. To Damon's way of thinking, Pavare was cool like running water, or the winds which blew around his castle in the northern mountains; this passion was unexpected.

The wanton hunger of Pavare’s response called a matching ardor from Damon.

His hands found the shape of Pavare's head, the coarse silk of the dark hair sliding through his fingers as the leather strip binding it back slipped free. Made clumsy by need, his hands shaking, he ran his fingers through the wealth of hair, his thumbs stroking the tips of Pavare's ears, pointed slightly, a legacy, if the gossip was true, of a fairy ancestor. Pavare rolled his head, his lips parting on a gasp. "Damon…"

There was nothing of the courtier in Pavare; he gave the king respect and bowed his arrogant head gracefully, but Damon he had always treated as an equal where others fawned.

And why not? Pavare's great grandfather had been a duke; Damon's a woodcutter. No secret, that; the royal coat of arms included a tree and an axe, and each year, on the first day of winter, any woodsman in the kingdom was allowed to enter the palace and receive a silver coin and the right to cut enough timber to keep his Majesty's citizens warm when the bitter winds, carrying snow and ice, howled down from the mountains.

From Pavare's mountains.

Pavare who mouthed fiercely at Damon's throat, real and vivid as flame, his heat burning away the memory of every other kiss Damon had been given, tepid, pale presses of lips, respectfully gentle.

Damon had fought Pavare before; with swords, with fists, the sparring always leaving him beaten and bruised, his old weapons instructor looking on, sour approval on his wrinkled face. Old Simeon wasn't overly fond of Pavare but he approved of princes learning how to lose on the practice grounds rather than the battlefield.

Damon had been a fast learner.

But not now. He used his grip on Pavare's hair to drag the man's head back, allowing him to stare into gray eyes, his breath coming in short, shallow pants. "You may not mark me." He held Pavare in place, opening the ties that held his shirt fastened, baring his chest. "Not where it will show."

Pavare grinned. "You bear my mark already. Your cheeks are flushed, your mouth bruised sweetly. You should see yourself, my prince."

"I can see you," Damon answered, his tone dry. "You seem in much the same state."

The chuckle Pavare gave him had a ragged edge. "I am. Speak of it to any and I shall deny it."

"I would like you to have more to deny than a blush and a kiss," Damon told him. He nodded toward the summerhouse, the carved wood silver in the moonlight. "We shall be private there and I believe the benches to be wide enough to be accommodating."

Pavare gave him a glance from under long, thick lashes. "I can, in fact, vouch for its suitability for dalliance, my prince, but will you not be missed?" He tilted his head, the light breeze carrying the faint scrape of the violins as they began to play.

"I will be missed if I do not return, yes." Damon raised his eyebrows. "And if I leave?"

"If you leave, I will be…" Pavare paused. "Frustrated. Damnably ill-tempered. Convinced that my charm has deserted me and my bed is destined to be a cold and lonely place from this night on."

The snort of derision Damon gave was met with an answering twinkle. "Pavare, should your bed ever be cold and empty, it will be because you chose to spend the night in your lover's chamber."

Pavare's lips parted as if to continue their duel and then he shook his head. "This is not -- We have no time, Damon. Already the king calls for you; do you not hear him?"

Damon could, faintly, over the music and the chatter. His father's bellow had a way of making itself heard over any distance.

"I must go."

"You must do more than that," Pavare murmured. "He will wish to meet your love." Ruefully, he shook his head, correcting himself. "Your lady. The one who fled."

"For once he will have to endure an unsatisfied whim. She is gone and I do not know her name." Damon hunched his shoulder irritably. "What does it matter? She's nothing to me. Pavare --"

Pavare stepped back, his face assuming an all-too familiar cool hauteur. Before Damon could do more than blink, a servant rushed in on them; a young pageboy, too agitated to recall his training. Damon had been a page for a year, as was the custom for all noble children. The girls were maids, the boys pages, and thus an awareness of how duties should be performed was gained, and some fellow feeling for those who served them. He had been assigned to the king and had learned that his father was harsh at times but fair. And even now, his mind in turmoil, part of him was chanting, "Step and step and wait and bow. Speak when spoken to, polite and low."

This page delivered a jerky bow and flinched as Pavare dealt the back of his head a stinging slap. "Your manners, boy, need work. Is this how you approach your betters?"

"Sir." Belatedly, the page gathered his wits, bowing deeply to Damon and then to Pavare. He took a breath and recited his message, his hands behind his arrow-straight back. "His Majesty requests the presence of his son, Prince Damon, and his companion, in the ballroom at their earliest convenience." A subtle shifting of the page's gaze to Pavare made it clear that he was not the companion the king expected to see.

"If I may be excused?" Pavare asked, his voice flat. He turned a scant beat before Damon's nod and disappeared into the shadows.

Damon sighed and walked back along the path to the ballroom, the page falling into step behind him. Once on the terrace, he picked up the slipper, eying it as he would a scuttling spider, a venomous snake. 

Then he walked into the ballroom, head high, through the parting crowd of courtiers to where his father waited.

***

"You are to marry her soon?" Pavare sounded disinterested, his attention on his sword, polishing an imperfection on the gleaming blade with a soft cloth.

Damon took a sip from his glass of watered wine, still breathing heavily, sweat damp on his body. Pavare had fought like one possessed today, his blade beating Damon's aside, his bare feet noiseless against the wood of the practice floor. Had they not been fencing with the sword tips sheathed, Damon would have been bleeding in a dozen places, assuming corpses bled. As it was, bruises were already forming on his skin. He stripped off his shirt and stood before the open window, shivering as the breeze dried his body.

After too long a time had passed for him to fool himself that Pavare would take the hint and speak of something other than his wedding, he sighed and answered. "Yes. Very soon. Invitations are being written, dresses made, and the chef has declared himself willing to hurl his worthless body from the castle ramparts if the cake is not the most splendid ever seen. All is in hand. All is going well. All is as it should be."

"No." Pavare's voice was bitter. "It is not. You are not as you should be, you are not well. Damon, you wed out of duty, not love; how can that be viewed as glorious, romantic? How can the kingdom rejoice at a union between strangers?"

"Is it not always so with us?" Damon demanded. "Part of the price we pay for our rank and privileges? The king wishes to have grandchildren to sit on his knee and tug at his beard. Wishes to see the succession safe before he passes. Fates willing, that will be some time away, but I understand. It is my duty. Once, perhaps, I could have chosen as my heart dictated, but now? No."

Pavare bit his lip. "You are correct in all you say, Damon. Your sense of duty is inspiring; your noble sacrifice equally so."

"I sense there is a sting in the tail of this compliment." 

Pavare tossed his sword down with a noisy clatter and stalked over to where Damon stood, grabbing him and shaking him. "I do not wish to lose you before I've even had you! I waited too long, I see that now, but you were so young. Damon, my love." He cupped Damon's face, his fingers gripping painfully tight before the touch gentled. "I was a fool. I should have done as I always do and just…" His thumb swept over Damon's lips. "Just taken," he whispered, his mouth seeking out a kiss Damon had no intention of allowing. His defenses were straw walls when it came to Pavare.

"I am not yours for the taking," he said coldly, hating himself. He shrugged free of Pavare's grip. "You forget yourself."

Pavare stared at him in silence for a long moment. "I see that I do," he said softly. He bowed, low and graceful, then straightened and smiled, his mouth twisting oddly. "I offer my most profound apologies, your Highness."

Damon willed himself to remain where he was, not to reach out. 

"I am to wed." The words fell like stones into water, sinking, lost in the silence.

"You do not love her and she does not know you."

"I must marry. The line must continue, and I --" Damon swallowed. "I am all he has."

"Now."

"Now," Damon echoed dully.

"It makes it harder, does it not?" Pavare walked past Damon and leaned on the window sill, the breeze light enough that the hair falling over his brow barely moved. "You were brought up to be--"

"A replacement," Damon finished, turning as Pavare walked by, unable to keep from looking at him. "Second in line. Less weight on my shoulders, fewer expectations, yes. Tirell was so strong. How could he die, Pavare? How?" He trembled, the memory of the day the rider had come with the tidings of his brother's death still brutally clear and sharp as if it had been an hour, not a half-year ago. 

The day after Damon had walked into Pavare's bedroom unannounced, in fact.

Pavare gave a fatalistic shrug. "His horse stumbled on a narrow, icy path, my dear. Your brother was all that is noble, all that was good, but he had not your luck."

"He was cursed, you mean!" The words burst out of Damon, bitter and acid. "My father should have forced that witch to remove her spell before he banished her!"

"Perhaps," Pavare said sadly. "What's done is done, however, and your brother is gone."

"They found no body." How often had he said that? And when had the pitying looks become impatient? "They dragged the river, they searched the cliff. They found the horse, yes, poor Hyrion, but not my brother."

"You cannot think him still alive?" There was pure astonishment in Pavare's eyes. "Damon, consider! It happened many leagues from here to be sure, but if he had survived, word would have been sent faster than a hawk could fly. Anyone from peasant to noble would have rendered him assistance. Your brother was much-loved, as are you."

"I know." Damon sighed. "I know," he repeated. "I miss him, but I do not feel the emptiness his death should bring. I feel he is still within reach." He grimaced. "I tried to find him. I rode out with the searchers and then I--"

"What?" prompted Pavare.

"I used my birth wish from my godmother," Damon said. "Used it to wish him safe, and here again."

"Wishes are chancy things," Pavare said after a short silence. "Powerful yet unpredictable. It could be that it worked in an unforeseen way. And if he was truly gone…"

"Then the wish would remain and it does not." Damon met Pavare's eyes. "It does not. I tried it. Tested it after I had waited and he had not returned. It did something to help him, of that I am sure."

Pavare's breath hissed out. "You should have come to me!"

"Why?"

He got a searching, doubtful look. "Your father is not a friend to magic, and who can blame him, but in the north we see it as another skill to be learned, if one has the aptitude. My father had me taught it in much the same way as I learned to read and fence. I was good at it. Never brilliant, no, but gifted enough. I could have directed the wish, strengthened it, perhaps."

"I did not know," Damon said, his heart heavy. "And as you say, my father disapproves of such practices. I did it in secret and told no one until now. I thought it best."

"Yes, well," Pavare said briskly. "Enough of regrets. I had thought your brother's death certain, else I would have suggested this before, but if you like, I can scry for him; seek him on the winds. That was always easy for me."

Damon drew in a shaky breath, elated by the offer of help, yet terrified at the prospect of losing all hope. "Scry? You can do that? I thought it a tale for children!"

"Children get told much that is untrue, to be sure," Pavare said, "but in this case, no." He arched an eyebrow, the mocking smile back on his face. "Well? May I offer my prince my services?"

"Pavare…" His throat tight, Damon lifted his hand, tracing that smile with his fingertips. "I will take anything you offer, always. You know that."

"No," Pavare said. "Not my heart; you will not have that."

"That, no, I cannot…"

"I will need a map of the kingdom, a candle and an eagle's feather," Pavare said, turning away from Damon's imploring look. "I will attend to that. I want you as little involved in this as possible."

"When shall we do it?" Damon thought back to the tales his nurse had told him at bedtime, her rocking chair creaking as she sat beside his bed knitting, her soft, country voice placid as she recounted legends and fables told to her by her own mother. "Midnight?"

Pavare snorted. "I think not. We will ride out after luncheon to, hmm, yes. Leveret Woods. There is a cliff on the eastern edge of the woods where we can see any who come near. If any ask, tell them we plan to hunt boar. No, they will not allow you to go unattended if they think you in danger." He sighed. "It is so much simpler at home."

"Do you miss it?" Damon asked curiously. "You have been here at court for so long. I thought you preferred it here."

Pavare returned to his lands from time to time, as all the nobles did, but Damon could not remember the last time he had stayed there for more than a week or so.

"I prefer --" Pavare cast up his eyes. "I weary of the courtly subtleties," he muttered. "Damon, I stay for you. To see you. To be near you. The day you wed is the day I leave. There! A piece of northern directness for you, my sweet southern prince."

"Oh." It was woefully inadequate, but it was all he could find to say. 

"Indeed." Pavare grinned, clearly enjoying his confusion. "Now, go, Damon." A lace-trimmed handkerchief appeared from nowhere, wafted languidly, lavender-scented. "And do wash before we ride out, my dear sir. My horse has a sensitive nose."

Damon growled at him and dived for the handkerchief, wrestling Pavare for it, play fighting as they had done so many times before.

It was different now. 

Pavare's strong body, redolent with clean sweat and a trace of the sandalwood soap he favored, was hard against his bare chest, the struggle fierce, no quarter given. Blocked and frustrated by Pavare's speed as the scrap of fabric was whipped away from his clutching hand, Damon grew determined to win at whatever the cost.

Then his hand found bare skin, damp and heated, curving around the back of Pavare's neck, and it seemed the most natural thing in the world to pull that laughing, taunting mouth closer to kiss.

For a moment Pavare resisted, his hands on Damon's shoulders, striving to push him away. Damon stroked Pavare's lips open with his tongue and Pavare yielded. The surrender was brief. With a growl, Pavare tugged him closer, his mouth merciless, taking all Damon had to give and demanding more.

Damon’s first kiss was at the age of twelve from a pretty farm girl, daisies twined in buttercup-gold hair, blue eyes shining. It had been a press of mouths, clumsy yet sweet. Since then, a thousand kisses, a dozen or more mouths had taught him the way the courtiers kissed, as formal, as choreographed, as a gavotte. This was nothing like those kisses. Pavare's tongue flicked and licked as decisively as his sword had thrust, leaving Damon's lips stinging, swelling as from a bee sting, with none of the pain and all the sweetness of the honey taken fresh from the comb.

Sharp and swift, Pavare bit and worried at the tender skin of Damon's throat, as he had done the night of the ball, sucking at it as though it was nectar and he in truth a bee, before the kisses continued.

Damon felt his arousal mount until he could no longer be satisfied with kisses, even ones like this. He worked his hand down between their bodies and ran his hand roughly over the proof of Pavare's arousal, feeling it jerk in the confines of his breeches.

"Damon." Pavare groaned. "We cannot, not here…"

"I need you." Damon circled the hardness with his thumb as best he could, fancying he could feel its slickness and heat through the man's breeches. "None will enter."

"Your bride to be might," Pavare ground out. "That simpering miss is underfoot constantly."

"You must not speak of her so." Damon drew back, his ardor quenched. "Ella is…" He hesitated and then sighed. "She is sweetness itself and pure of spirit. That I have no taste for sugar is my fault."

"Indeed." Pavare sighed, his expression bleak. "She sees only your rank. I see the man behind it."

"I wish you could see more of me," Damon said. "All of me, in fact." He got a reluctant grin in return for his sally.

"I have swum with you often enough to have an idea of your form," Pavare teased him. His smile faded. "You will ride with me later? We will do this thing?"

Damon stared out of the window, at the rolling hills and the town nestled at their feet; at the blue sparkle of the wide, placid river and the dimmer, misty blue of the faraway mountains where that same river was an icy, rushing torrent foaming over bare rock. Was his brother truly still to be found in the kingdom that he should have inherited?

It could do no harm to try one final time to find him.

He nodded. "I will."

***

The woods were drowsy with heat, the air pressing close against Damon's face. "Is it much farther?" he called out to Pavare, patting his horse's neck encouragingly as the animal whickered and shook its head to disturb the thickly clustering flies.

"No," Pavare called back, reining in his horse and fumbling for a canteen of water. He drank and then pointed. "See the break in the trees? The cliff top is there, and if memory serves there is a small spring falling into a pool nearby. We can tether the horses there and let them drink."

Damon nodded, easing his collar away from his chafed neck, and urged his horse forward. Within a few minutes he dismounted with a sigh of relief, then led both horses to the pool, deep in shadows, the rocks around it green with moss. The spring, even on this summer day, emerged from a cleft in the hillside pleasantly cool and clear and the pool itself, emptying into a stream that, Damon presumed, would meander down to join the great river itself, was waist deep and wide enough that it would have taken a stroke or two to cross it.

He refilled both water bottles, then let the horses drink, tethering them where they could crop the thick, soft grass that had sprung up, emerald green and lush, around the pool.

When he walked onto the cliff top, a breeze fanned his heated face and he sighed with pleasure, wishing he had thought to bathe his face and hands. He chuckled, hearing the echo of his nurse's voice, scolding him as a child for doing just that and risking a chill, according to her. Odd how the past could influence one in so trivial a way.

Pavare had set out a map of the kingdom, the heavy parchment weighed down at the corner with pebbles. He brushed his fingers over the northern mountain ranges, his eyes wistful. "I need to go home, soon."

"I wish I could go with you," Damon told him. "I was taken there once as a child, I believe. My brother and I visited every corner of the realm so that all could see us, but I was too young to recall it clearly."

"I remember," Pavare said. "You were three, I believe, and I eleven. You wanted my bow and arrows to play with and cried when your nurse forbade it." He laughed. "How she scolded me for allowing you to hold an arrow I had just made, in case you cut yourself! Your father bade her hush, but she carried you off regardless. That woman would have faced down a horde of goblins, or a tribe of ogres if they tried to harm her nurslings."

"A redoubtable woman," Damon agreed, smiling. "I miss her more than I can tell. With our mother dying when I was but a babe, Nanny Sarah was most dear to us."

"My mother still lives but I cannot say she is dear to me," Pavare said ruefully. "She terrifies me. And even now, she can outshoot me. Her eyes are as keen and sharp as the eagle this feather is from." He picked up the feather, smoothing it and letting the sunlight catch it, making bronze and gold out of the glossy brown shades.

"How will you use the feather?"

Pavare took out the candle, set into an odd holder, its base a spike of metal. "Like this." He plunged the candle through the parchment, directly over the symbol of the castle. "Close enough to where we are," he commented, taking out his tinderbox and striking a small flame with a few practiced movements. The candle was lit, Pavare murmuring a few words when the small flame wavered in the breeze, making it burn steadily, the small light lost in the sunlight.

"Now," Pavare said, stretching out his hand to Damon. "Think of your brother. Picture him."

"What have you there?" Damon asked curiously, sliding his hand into Pavare's. The feather was between Pavare's fingers but there was something else glinting there, a twist of golden hair.

"It is a lock of your brother's hair," Pavare said. "Filched from the locket of the Lady Diane." He gave Damon a roguish look. "She will never know; I replaced it with hair of a similar hue from Molly, the chambermaid, and somehow I do not feel your brother would mind."

"Not he!" Damon exclaimed. "How did she come by it? He loathed her, the spiteful, empty-headed baggage that she is."

Pavare shrugged. "I know not and it matters not. Trust that it is his, though; I checked."

Damon carefully did not ask how. He had little leaning toward the magical but his skin prickled being this close to Pavare as he prepared his spell.

"Think of him," Pavare said softly, his low voice compelling.

Damon watched the lock of hair drop toward the flame and hang there, against all reason, against all rules, each hair twisting as though it were alive, forming a braid. The eagle feather was likewise held and dropped, hovering like the bird itself.

"Speed and sight and air so bright…"

Damon's eyes closed, a score of memories surging up, called from his mind without volition. Tirell laughing down at him as he extended his hand and hauled his baby brother up to ride before him on his pony. Tirell drunk, slurring and sobbing his heartbreak against Damon's shoulder when one of his lady loves had taken a fever and died, mourned fleetingly by the court; not so Tirell. Tirell dancing, indefatigable, his smile merry, his feet nimble. Tirell, bloody, bruised, holding a pup rescued from drowning at the hands of some village boys whose ready fists had pounded the simply dressed boy they failed to recognize as their prince. Tirell had been rescued by his guard, thundering up, ashen-faced and sweating, and had pardoned each boy the next day after letting them sit in a dungeon overnight, their petty cruelty well and truly regretted. One had become a member of his entourage; Simeon, apprenticed to the Royal falconer, who had set free each of Tirell's hawks and gone back to his village when the news of Tirell's death had been confirmed.

Tirell. Brother, friend.

"Seek him, search him, find him out."

The air was busy, buzzing, alive, but he could not open his eyes. He smelled wax and then the acrid stench of burned hair. With an effort he forced open heavy eyes and saw the braid of hair consumed, vanishing utterly, and the feather settling down gently, the point of the shaft resting on the marshlands west of where Tirell had been lost. 

"He lives," Pavare whispered. "The hair was taken by the flame and see--" He blew out the candle and as the smoke curled up it formed a braid, hanging grey for a moment before dissipating. "Damon, your brother lives."

***

On foot, the marshes were arduous to cross, but they had no choice. No horse could safely navigate this morass of bright, treacherous green, cloaking shifting, sucking mud. Damon swatted an insect bent on eating him alive and sighed.

He could not regret what he and Pavare were doing, but he could wish it was a little more like the stories, where the heroes seemed to reach their destination at a swift gallop, with inns aplenty where they could rest their weary heads and fill their empty stomachs.

He and Pavare had been on foot for two days, their food was dwindling fast, and the feather, when held out, still pointed obstinately toward the heart of the marshes where Damon doubted any could live.

"Madness, boy, madness!" his father had thundered. "Your wedding is in two weeks and Ella sees little of you as it is."

Ella had stepped up to his side then, her pointed chin raised, her gray eyes serious. "Sire, I mourned the loss of Prince Tirell without knowing him; how much deeper is the grief of a loving brother?" Her small hand had gripped Damon's with a surprising strength, her nails delivering a warning nip to quiet his protest at the king's refusal to allow him to search for his brother. "You told me as my wedding gift, I could have anything within your power to grant. Grant me this; allow your son to undertake this quest to ease his mind."

"What?" The king had stood, towering over her slight figure, his face poppy-red. Ella's work-worn hand had slipped free of Damon's and she had taken two quick steps, her flowered skirts spread wide as she sank into a deep, graceful curtsey, peeping up through tear-sparkled lashes at the king.

"Please, your Majesty?"

The throne room had been silent, a sharp, waiting silence that had softened and warmed as the king shouted out with amusement.

"Oh, come here and give an old man a kiss, my pretty little Ella! And wipe those tears away, I say; I cannot bear to see you cry, child."

Ella had bussed his cheek, wisely refraining from doing more than murmuring a few quiet, grateful words and Damon had set out the next day, charged to be home the day before the wedding on pain of banishment.

Pavare and he had been accompanied by guards but they had outpaced and then lost them after the first day, tired of their lagging pace and grumbles about what a waste of time it was and how they were missing the pre-wedding festivities.

"Ella is a good person," Damon said suddenly.

Pavare paused, rubbing a filthy hand over an equally filthy face. "Yes, she is," he agreed unexpectedly. "I misjudged her. She has a sparkle of wit and a good deal of commonsense about her."

"She knows of my feelings for you."

"Does she indeed?" Dark eyebrows arched. "And who spread that gossip to be pecked at? I had thought we had been discreet."

Damon tapped a finger against his chest. "I told her. I could not marry without her knowing that my heart was yours."

It was as close as he had come to telling Pavare he loved him. Years of admiration, months of longing, a few heated, stolen kisses -- they added up to little, perhaps, but it mattered not; he loved Pavare with a deep certainty of the rightness of his love. Pavare was his.

"It is?" Pavare leaned in, stared at Damon, who guessed his face to be as mud-bespattered as Pavare's, and then grimaced. "I cannot kiss you. There is no place not smeared with foul-smelling mud."

"Craven," Damon said with a fond scorn. "For that you will forfeit the first bath."

"Whenever we get to a place that offers such delights," Pavare muttered. He scratched at a welt. "What did she say?"

"That she knew and it made no difference; she was destined to marry a prince." Damon shook his head in bemusement. "Sensible on all but that point."

"I told you there was magic involved," Pavare said sourly. He began to walk again. "Is it true what they say? That she worked as a servant?"

"It is," Damon confirmed. "She's well-born enough; her mother was a distant cousin of the Duke of Westchester, but she was cast-off when she married a rich merchant."

"Aye, the Westchesters never did have overly full coffers."

"It was a love match, but she died soon after Ella was three and the stepmother sounds to have been a harridan. The merchant lasted a handful of years and the woman placed her own daughters from an earlier marriage in Ella's place. The child was all but forgotten by the world, left to slave for her sisters, wearing rags, half-starved."

"And she showed up at the ball in glitter and glass and captured you, my love." Pavare's laughter was a clean, fresh sound against the muted background of the fetid marshes. "Magic and strong at that."

"I agree, but she has done nothing to compel my love; my respect and liking, perhaps."

"I do not think her tale is yet told." Pavare paused. "Damon, look over there. Is that smoke from a chimney?"

"What?" Damon stepped up beside Pavare, close to him on the narrow path, slipping his arm around Pavare's shoulders to steady himself. "I don't see anything. Oh! Why, yes, I believe it is!"

Pavare took out the eagle's feather, whispered a brief incantation, and opened his palm. The feather rose, twisted, and pointed at the trickle of smoke.

Damon and Pavare stepped away from each other and drew their swords. 

"Step silently and follow my lead," Pavare cautioned. 

"I follow no man into a fight," Damon said indignantly. 

"Shush!" Heedless now of the mud, Pavare clapped his hand over Damon's mouth. "My prince, I mean no disrespect. If your brother is there, he is a prisoner and likely held by more than chains." He patted Damon's cheek. "And your father will have my head if I allow you to come to harm."

"Oh, very well," Damon snapped. "But I will be close on your heels." He sniffed. "And if my father thought me a coward, he would not want me back."

"You could never be that, my love," Pavare said absently. "Now, hush, or I will gag you. I trust that will not affect your sword arm?"

Damon opened his mouth to protest in the most scathing of terms, then reconsidered. Pavare smiled slightly and wisely held his own tongue.

They approached what turned out to be a small cottage, circling it warily. There was no sign of an inhabitant beside the smoke and the ground seemed firmer underfoot. They had reached the edge of the marsh, Damon realized, seeing the green of trees in the distance. He wondered why the cottage had not been built closer to the woods, but marshes moved and the cottage was old. He supposed once, maybe in his grandfather's time, this could have been forested land.

The cottage door opened and they sank into a crouch behind a stand of bushes, prickly with spikes and purple berries, smelling as foul as the soil from which they took their nourishment.

The tall figure who emerged was Tirell.

Damon choked, his breath uneven, his eyes misted. Furious with himself, he shook his head, blinking to clear his eyes, straining to see, to be sure.

"It is he," Pavare said, the words breathed into Damon's ear. "I see him too."

"We must call to him!" Damon said, trying to keep his voice equally low. "Pavare, why does he not run? There is no one watching, no ropes binding him."

"He is not visibly bound," Pavare answered. "There are other ties that can hold a man in place, as well you know."

Before Damon could reply, the cottage door opened again and a slender, dark haired girl appeared, smiling and calling out to Tirell. "Jennis, love, I need water from the well if I am to make supper."

Jennis? Damon frowned as his brother turned, his familiar voice deep and happy as he told the girl that he would fetch her two buckets, three, if she made him her rabbit stew.

There was something in the casual, loving exchange that brought Damon's temper boiling up. How dared his brother, mourned by a kingdom, heir to that kingdom, be here, happily content in a run-down cottage? Before Pavare could stop him, he leaped up, then ran toward his brother, heedless of the sword in his hand, a roar of fury spilling from his mouth.

Tirell turned, blanched, and put himself between Damon and the woman, his face full of confusion and fear. The woman, though… Her pretty face twisted in a gleeful, spiteful smile before she shrank against Tirell with a piteous moan of terror.

"Tirell!" Damon came to a halt, searching his brother's face in vain for some sign of recognition. Behind him he could hear Pavare cursing steadily under his breath as he walked across the clearing to join him. "Tirell, it is I, Damon. What are you doing here, brother?"

"He is not your brother," the woman hissed. "He is my husband, Jennis. Get you gone!"

Damon lowered his sword and saw Tirell relax a little, although there was a look in his brother's eyes, an uncertainty as though he groped for the truth and found it slipping through his hands like waterweeds.

"He is my brother, Prince Tirell, heir to the throne of this land and thought dead these past months," Damon told her coldly. "We thank you for your care of him, lady, though much greater thanks would have been yours had you brought him to the palace."

"'Prince'?" She laughed, a musical ripple of amusement that sent a shiver through Damon. Pavare's hand came to rest on his shoulder, squeezing it in both warning and reassurance. "He is a peasant, like me. We live here with a few chickens and a goat, and I make medicines from the herbs that grow in the marshes to sell for a few pennies. You are mistaken, sir."

"Avril." A frown creased Tirell's forehead. "He speaks and it stirs memories."

"Memories of dreams, fever dreams," she said, caressing Tirell's arm. "You were ill, my sweet, remember? The air here can bring the sweating sickness and I nursed you."

"I'm sure you did, witch," Pavare said, stepping forward. "When you found him wandering, close to death from his fall into the river, I'm sure your foul, black heart rejoiced at the chance to…nurse him." The point of his sword was raised, aimed at her, unwavering. "You worked your spells to cloud his mind. Made him believe your lies."

"No!" Tirell shook his head. "Witch? She is no witch! What madness is this you speak? Spells and princes! I am -- I am --"

"Where were you born?" Pavare asked softly. "Your mother's name? Your childhood friends? What lass gave you your first kiss; where did you get the scar that marks your forearm?"

Tirell glanced down at the white slash scarring his skin. "My axe slipped, cutting down a tree." He glanced questioningly at Avril who cooed approvingly and nodded.

"Lies!" Damon said. "How could an axe you held cut you so? 'Tis impossible!" He stepped forward and grasped Tirell's wrist, shaking it. "It is a sword cut from my blade when we sparred as children and I could not sit to eat for a week because our father beat me soundly for not using the wooden practice swords. Think, Tirell, think!"

Tirell groaned, his face contorting. "I cannot hear this. I cannot." He backed away, stumbling over to a bench, where Avril joined him, her face all pretty concern.

"She holds him somehow," Pavare whispered. "Feeds him potions, most likely. They would not need to be strong if the illusion was never challenged as we are doing now. And perhaps your wish protected him somewhat."

"But who is she?" Damon asked. "Why would she do this? What does it gain her?"

Pavare shrugged. "He is company, a strong arm, a pleasant companion in her bed; that she keeps him is no matter of wonder, but I feel there is more here than we see." He frowned. "I wonder…"

"Speak plainly and swiftly," Damon said through his teeth. "Before she cajoles him into forgetfulness again."

"When you look at her, what do you see?"

Damon shrugged. "Young, pretty, with dark hair and green eyes. Why?"

"Anathea had green eyes."

"The witch who cursed him at birth?" Damon gaped at him. "She was banished! And even at his christening, if the tales I've heard are correct, she was already advanced in age."

"True. And adept at cloaking her age." Pavare's lips twisted in a cynical smile. "Or do you think your father often beds hags?"

"My father?" Damon gulped back a protest, too much of the story making sense now. His nurse had always tutted and looked knowing when he'd asked, drowsy with sleep, why the wicked witch had been so unkind to his brother, and blown out the candle when his questions had persisted.

"Do not judge him. As she has done to your brother, so she did to him." Pavare looked grim. "From what I hear, your mother never forgave him, even so."

Damon cast Avril a look. "But how can we be sure? Green eyes are not uncommon."

"Indeed, but a witch mark always remains, no matter how changed the body." Pavare walked over to the couple on the bench, staring down at them with his sword at the ready. "Lady, I believe you to be the banished witch, Anathea, your person subject to death should you return to this land." He laid the blade of his sword against her throat, keeping it there even as Tirell cried out and tried to intervene. "Stay back, my prince."

Damon went to his brother, drawing him up from the bench and back a few steps. Tirell struggled, but half-heartedly, as though too much troubled him to make his protest sincere.

"If you are the witch, you carry her mark," Pavare said. "Should you be innocent, I fear I must cause you some embarrassment, but I need to see your left hip, lady. If you are indeed Anathea, it will have a star on it, scarlet and the size of my thumb." He arched an eyebrow. "Stand and raise your skirts."

"A star?" Tirell shook his head, grief and anger marring his features. "Aye, she has a star there. Often as we lay together have I seen it."

"Fool! Ingrate!" The witch stood, knocking Pavare's blade aside, heedless of the gash it opened on her arm. She faced Tirell. "Aye, I am Anathea. And when the river brought you to me, I knew I had been gifted with a second chance to rob your father of what he held dearest." Her eyes narrowed. "Then, he had but one child to take from him. Now he has two."

"Harm either and your death will be slow," Pavare cautioned her. "Your life ends now, witch, but I will make it a kinder death than you deserve if you --"

"If I --?" She moved away in a swirl of wind come from nowhere, dried leaves rising in a cloud around her, hovering in the now-still air. "Submit? Bow my neck for you to cleave my head from my shoulders?"

"If that is how you wish to die, I have no objections," Pavare said, the irony clear in his voice. "Yet somehow I fancy you plan to fight us."

She turned her head to look at Tirell. "And do I fight alone, my darling? Or will you stand by me? Protect me?"

From the way the dazed look on Tirell's face had altered to one of disgust and anger, it seemed unlikely. Damon was not quite ready to arm his brother -- not while the witch still lived and could possibly sway Tirell's thoughts again -- but he was certain his brother remembered enough to be sure of where his loyalties lay.

"You face three of us," Damon told her. "And your sentence was pronounced before my birth. Your life is forfeit; your magic black. You cursed my brother and all his life ill-chance has followed him. That curse will end with your death and I wish mercy had not stayed my father's hand long ago."

"Most likely, another spell compelled him," Pavare remarked sourly.

"You think me powerless?" She stared at them curiously, her voice flat. "Think me weak?"

"I think you rotten to the core," Pavare snapped.

She raised her hand and flicked her fingers contemptuously, murmuring under her breath. The leaves around her shot forward, flying as though alive, a stinging cloud of insects by the time they reached the three men, leaves no longer.

Damon cried out, clawing at his face and feeling the wetness of blood under his fingers. Beside him, Tirell moaned. "My eyes! No!"

"It is an illusion," Pavare said harshly, standing straight, ignoring the myriad attacks on his exposed skin. "They are still nothing but leaves. Close your eyes, my princes and heed nothing but my voice."

"Die, as you have lived, in ignorance and in darkness?" Anathea taunted. "Aye, why not?"

"Listen to me," Pavare said, his words cool, compelling. "Both of you. You know me. You trust me. Damon, do this for me; Tirell, place your life in your brother's hands. He never gave up hope that you lived. Never."

Damon took his brother's hand, pulling him close, shielding him as best he could. To feel his brother, strong, fearless Tirell, shiver against him like a frightened puppy angered him. He bit down on his lip and gave Pavare one final look, needing to see that arrogant, pale face, tight with determination now, before he closed his eyes. The bites were small, excruciating, maddening; he felt eaten alive, his skin shredding, chewed away. He leaned against Tirell, holding to the thought that Pavare's features were unmarred.

Pavare's voice wound around him as Pavare's arms had, holding him safely. "Leaves, my prince, no more than that, once green and fresh, whispering in the wind, now dried and light. They cannot harm you, can do no harm you do not allow. I shall never let you be hurt. Your face is fair still, my love, marked with no more than tears, and even that is an injury I shall avenge."

The whispered words calmed him, allowing him to hold to that truth. He nodded, the pain lessening, and stepped forward, toward the witch, raising his sword in both hands, bringing it across in a scything arc.

The stroke which took her head jarred his arm as flesh and bone met steel, but it was the oddly muted thud as her head struck the ground which had him turning his head to spit out the sour taste filling it.

His brother cried out, not in grief or loss, but relief and amazement, and Damon stumbled back into Pavare's waiting arms, his sword heavy, blood-stained, pointing down.

It was over.

***

"So tell me, brother," Tirell asked as they rode, the three of them on horses Pavare swore he could outrun, knock-kneed, ancient mounts, ambling along placidly. "While I have been absent, what have you been doing?" He frowned. "You were to have left the court, were you not, and taken up residence in one of your holdings? I know you were looking forward to that."

It would not have mattered had he not; at twenty-five, all younger princes left, their possibly dangerous ambitions diverted into the overseeing of what would become minor courts along the borders. As the only other prince, Damon had been given his choice; the northern holdings or those in the south. He had been inclined to those in the south because they were closer to the main court, but now…

"I was." He avoided Pavare's glance. "I will now, I suppose, once you are settled."

"And where shall I look for you when I want to see my little brother?" Tirell asked, the heavily playful tone due, Damon suspected, to Tirell's inability to express himself with any subtlety.

"I will make my home in the mountains," Damon replied. Pavare's home was thirty minutes’ ride away, no more. Their lands met, the border marked by a river, filled with leaping fish, bordered with woods in which they could both hunt. He could smell the air, fresh and clear, imagine the storms rolling around the majestic peaks of the mountain.

And he would have Pavare in his life, as advisor, friend, neighbor and lover.

He turned his head and gave Pavare an exultant grin, expecting it to be returned, but Pavare's face was troubled.

"What is it?"

"Should you not perhaps consider where your bride would prefer to live?" Pavare asked. "The south is warm, the breezes mild; the people gentle of spirit and cultured. It may be that she --"

"Bride?" Tirell interrupted. "What is this?"

"There was… Our father wished…" Damon stammered. "He gave a ball and I met…"

"A young girl named Ella," Pavare said smoothly. "Destined to marry a prince. Which, with you missing, led her to Prince Damon."

"You took my girl?" Tirell said, chuckling, reaching over to deal Damon's shoulder a blow that rocked him in his saddle. "You dog!"

"You may have her," Damon said impulsively. "She is a delightful girl, Tirell and our father is most fond of her."

Tirell guffawed. "Lord, Damon, you can't pass the girl around like a parcel! Besides…" He flushed. "You remember my godmother? The one who softened that bitch's death wish to a curse?"

"Aunt Salera?" The woman had left the kingdom when Damon was a child and he could not recall her at all. "What of her?"

"She left me a letter, telling me that I would know my true, umm, love--" Tirell blushed as red as the poppies in the cornfield beside the road. "Because she would be the only girl in the world who could dance in slippers of glass and not have them shatter." He shrugged. "Nonsense, of course, but that's what she -- What? Why are you two smiling like that?"


End file.
